The man with the bulging left pocket and the corresponding buried hand that manipulated it just seconds before you stepped into the viewing room flicks his possum eyes from corner to corner, fiddles with his headphones and lumbers out of sight (likely toward another mildew cornered Renaissance canvas with pink puffs indicating the presence of long dead nipples). The thick memory of his flushed face hangs heavy in the room like an elevator filled with soccer mom smells and hairstylist noise. Dead eyed teenagers stop dutifully while a teacher gestures grandly towards a well known piece and takes a few extended moments to enjoy the echo and play of her resonant voice in the expansive hall. A boy, just away from the crowd, scuffs the floor with his gaudy sneakers and blinks heavy and hard at the noontime light that pours endless through the one window in the room. He spins slow from the light on a heel, casually flicking a two fingers in front of his gaze as a stop gap shield.

His backpack is a canvas of his own and the paint-penned fabric is filled with whirling letters and dizzy figures. He stands away from the rest.